Almost a Crime (7 page)

Seven years on, she was very happy with him; in spite of

his considerable complexities (most notably his appallingly

dangerous and difficult relationship with his daughter) she

continued to love him and to greatly enjoy his company

and his bed.

Marianne was one of those seemingly unemotional

women who are actually extremely passionate, and she

would look sometimes at Felix Miller across a room or a table, with his thick silvering hair, his unreadably dark eyes, his large frame with its almost visible pent-up energy, and

feel a rush of pure sexual desire for him. It was not

unknown for the pair of them to leave parties or restaurants

rather swiftly, and even for them to enjoy rather rampant

sex on some isolated beach or remote piece of countryside.

Their children, had they known, would have been appalled.

They spent two or three nights a week together in

London, always at his house, never at hers, and holidayed

together at his cottage in Barbados, hers in Portugal. She

had no career, but found herself extremely fully occupied

(apart from her golf) with a serious involvement in funding

and profile raising for both the arts and various charities,

and in caring for her two daughters, who were still young

enough - Zoe at eighteen, Romilly at fifteen - to need a

great deal of her attention.

They lived, the three of them, in a large triplex

apartment on the north side of Eaton Square; exquisitely

furnished and decorated in a style as determinedly light as

Marianne’s personal one was dark, it was very much a

home. The girls had the top floor to themselves, with a

bedroom each, a sitting room and a bathroom, which gave

them an illusion at least of independence and freedom.

Marianne’s children were not exactly fond of Felix

Miller, but they liked him, and accepted his position in

their mother’s life with tolerable grace; he was very fond of

Romilly but found Zoe, with her spirit and a beauty and

sexuality eerily like her mother’s, difficult to cope with. He

also found Marianne’s attitude towards them — tolerant,

easy, almost detached — impossible to understand.

He watched her now as she came across the room to kiss

him, and said, ‘You sure you don’t want to stay?’

‘I’m quite sure. I’m tired and I’ve got a big match

tomorrow.’

‘Well, you certainly mustn’t let me keep you from

something as important as that.’

The amount of time and energy she spent on her golf

irritated him, particularly when he was displeased with her;

it baffled him that a woman so intelligent, so culturally sophisticated, should devote herself to such a thing.

‘You could be running a company easily,’ he had said to

her more than once, and she had laughed and said she had

no desire to run a company; she saw life as something to be

enjoyed, experienced, rather than worked through, and if

there was no need for her to work, and there clearly was

none, then why should she? The girls needed her at home,

she enjoyed being at home, and she also wanted to be

available to Marc whenever he was in London. Felix,

whose entire life had been dedicated to the pursuit and

acquisition of success, struggled and failed to understand

her; it constantly amazed him that he should find himself

compatible with such a creature.

And maybe he wasn’t, he thought now, listening to her

car driving down Well Walk, maybe they should consider

parting; and then knew that he couldn’t possibly, that,

compatible or not, what he felt for Marianne was as near to

love as he had ever felt for any woman. Any woman apart

from Octavia, of course.

Tom was still not home by eleven thirty. Octavia decided

to go to bed in the spare room so that Tom wouldn’t wake

her when he did get in. She turned out the light and tried

to sleep, but the insomnia that always haunted her was very

powerful tonight. She was tempted to take a sleeping pill,

but she had to get up early, perform well; the pill would

make her fuzzy headed, less competent. So would being

exhausted; it was always a conflict, that, trying to decide

which evil was the lesser. And so she lay in bed, staring into

the darkness, doing one of the relaxation exercises her yoga

instructor had given her — absolutely useless but they were

at least something to do — willing herself to stay calm …

She had just turned the light on again to read when she

heard the chugging of a taxi in the street below, and Tom

coming in and up the stairs very quietly. She knew what

would happen next: he would find her not in their bedroom, and then he would come looking for her. He didn’t mind her moving out of their room, he was

sympathetic about her insomnia, but he hated to go to bed

without saying good night to her. She found it at once

touching and irritating that she must be awoken from her

precious sleep to be kissed and told to sleep well.

She smiled at him as he came and sat down on the bed,

kissed her.

‘Sorry I’m late. Bob Macintosh was at the dinner, got

into a rather long conversation with him.’

‘What about?’

Bob Macintosh was one of Tom’s longest-standing and

most important clients; he owned a small but very successful

chain of supermarkets in the Midlands and North of

England. He was outspoken, rather rotund, prematurely

grey haired, with brilliant dark eyes. Octavia was very fond

of him.

‘Oh, he’s not very happy.’

‘Really? How’s Maureen?’

‘Maureen’s the reason. She’s been playing around.

Again.’

Maureen was a flashy redhead, ten years younger than

Bob, loud, funny, extremely extrovert. She was fond of

Bob and fonder of his money, but she was serially

unfaithful.

‘Oh, dear. Poor old Bob. I don’t know how he puts up

with it.’

‘Usual thing. Can’t live with her, can’t live without her,’

said Tom. ‘Anyway, it’s rather complex this time. She’s

been sleeping with an MP.’

‘An MP! Heavens, Tom, who?’

‘Well, that’s the trouble. Or rather what makes it

complex. He’s a junior minister. Quite high profile. And

Mr Blair’s squeaky-clean new government can’t be tainted

with any Tory-style sleaze. Not yet anyway. They want it

hushed up, but the press are on to it, and so they need Bob’s

cooperation.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘Alistair Campbell, or rather one of his merry men, is looking for a garden-gate job. You know, David Mellorstyle,

whole family looking wonderfully happy.’

‘Both families?’

‘Yes. And Bob’s just not sure if he can go through with

it. He says it turns him up.’

‘It would me,’ said Octavia, ‘and it would you, surely. I

hope,’ she added, leaning forward and kissing him.

‘Yes, of course it would,’ he said. He sounded irritable.

She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘So what’s it got to do

with you? Apart from the fact he’s your friend. And your

client of course.’

Tom sighed. ‘He wanted to know what I thought about

it. About the whole thing.’

‘And?’

‘I said it all came down to how he felt about Maureen.

Whether he can forgive her yet again.’

‘And?’

‘Well, he says he can, he wants her back, still loves her.

Poor sod. But on his own terms. And that certainly doesn’t

include making everything fine and dandy for her lover.’

‘He should turn it to his own advantage,’ said Octavia

briskly.

Tom stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean he should get something in return if he does

agree to play ball with them. As well as Maureen, I mean. I

presume she wants to stay with him.’

‘Of course she does. Faced with the prospect of losing

Bob and the money and that monstrous house and

everything, she suddenly finds him the only man in the

world—’

‘You don’t like Maureen, do you?’ she said.

‘No, I don’t. I can’t bear those money-grubbing, kept

women.’

‘You like Lauren Bartlett though,’ she said suddenly.

‘No, I don’t. I can’t stand her, actually.’

‘You don’t behave as if you can’t stand her. I seem to

remember some rather tactile dancing, the other night.’

‘Oh, Octavia, don’t start,’ he said wearily.

‘I’m not starting anything. Just making an observation—’

She stopped. This could get nasty. She was horribly,

painfully jealous, couldn’t bear Tom flirting even, had

never learned to laugh it off, to accept it didn’t mean

anything. And he flirted a great deal; it was part of his

charm, as natural to him as breathing.

‘Anyway, that’s the advice I’d give Bob,’ she said quickly

now, anxious to backtrack. ‘If he really wants Maureen

back, that is. He doesn’t have to do anything, it seems to

me. He holds all the cards. He should play a few of them.

Only don’t ask me which ones and how,’ she added,

slithering down on the pillows, ‘I’m much too tired to

think. I just feel dreadfully sorry for poor Bob.’

Tom sat looking at her very intently for a moment or

two, then leaned forward and kissed her. ‘You’re a clever

girl,’ he said, ‘and I love you. Having trouble sleeping?’

She nodded.

‘How would you like me to help you relax? I swear I’ll

go back to our room later.’ His dark grey eyes were very

intense, very serious.

She looked back at him, equally so.

‘I think I’d like that a lot,’ she said. Against all logic, all

common sense, the fact it was late, that she had an early

meeting, that she would be exhausted, she wanted him.

Quite badly suddenly; she could feel her body stirring, feel

it reaching out into desire. She moved lower in the bed,

held her arms up to him, like a child. His eyes fixed on hers,

he pulled off his clothes, climbed in beside her, started to

kiss her. They were both in a hurry, strangely, almost

guiltily so; she reached to put the light out.

‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘I want to be able to see you.’

He liked studying her, stroking her, kissing her small

breasts, her flat stomach, her neat, taut thighs, liked her to

look at him, to learn about him and what pleased him. She

had found that difficult at first; it had been part of her

insecurity, her nervousness. She preferred darkness. He had

teased her about it, told her she was an anal retentive, that it

was all part of her father-complex; that had upset her, she had cried, been angry, pulled away from him. It had taken

her a long time to learn to relax in bed; and she had known

in her innermost heart that Tom was right, that her father

did haunt her sexuality, that even as she welcomed Tom

into her, felt him exploring her, felt her own sensations

growing in violence and pleasure, she knew that a small part

of her still held back, watching herself anxiously, afraid of

losing herself entirely, of doing something she could not

quite allow herself.

But he taught her to trust herself and him; taught her to

enjoy herself, literally. In a relationship that was often taut,

pressured, over-demanding, what happened in bed was an

important, easeful thing for them both, an exploration of

one another on every level, still careful, still looked forward

to and savoured, and still, to Octavia at least, a most vital

element in her self-esteem.

But tonight, there was no holding back. He was in her

quickly, and they came quickly too, both of them. It was as

if they were somehow in a hurry, rushing towards pleasure,

grasping for it, as if there was something beyond it that they

both had to reach, that would not wait long for them. She

felt herself climbing into her orgasm, felt it break, sweetly

fierce, felt him follow almost at once; afterwards they lay,

holding each other, breathing hard still, smiling but slightly

surprised by the violence, the urgency that had overcome

them both.

‘I’ll go now,’ he said, as she drifted into sleep, but, ‘No,’

she said. ‘No, don’t, stay with me, I want you here.’

The last thing she heard was his voice saying he loved

her; the last thing she thought was how much she needed

him …

She had not expected to see him in the morning, slipped

out of bed, showered and dressed and got the notes for her

meeting, thinking him still fast asleep. But he appeared in

the nursery, very wide awake, as she kissed Minty goodbye,

followed her downstairs.

‘I’ll see you tonight,’ he said. ‘It’s the Savoy again, I’m

afraid.’

‘I know. Drapers, regional newspapers, right? I’ll be

there.’

‘How did you get on with Carlton?’ he asked. ‘After I’d

gone?’

‘Oh, all right. I have to say it’s a bit of a minefield, Tom.’

‘I know. I can see that. But good about the sponsorship,

surely?’

‘Ye-es. Hope so. Bit loaded. And then he gave me a

lecture about neglecting my children.’

‘I’m sorry about that. I’m sure you were very patient.’

‘I was. Of course. ‘Bye, Tom. Oh, and by the way,’ she

added, turning back into the room, ‘my father wants you to